Death & Kids

by Dennis Green

The silence of the grave is absolute. A recent “Sunday Morning” report detailed the affect on children of the death of a parent. Heart-wrenching stuff. And very brave. Because in our society, we don’t often use “The D-Word” even among adults. Dead. As a doornail.

“Children grieve for the rest of their lives. They never get over it. It doesn’t end. Your whole life is different.” And yet, the implication is that for children it’s oh so very different than for us grownups. If only.

My father died at the age of 90, after five years of terminal illness, knowing that he was dying. And yes, I felt some relief upon hearing the news, but that didn’t last. That was seven years ago, when I was 62, but I’m still grieving his death. I still miss him.

My sister came upon a box of old photos recently, and there he is, Herb Green, tall and a bit remote, handsome, that wide forehead and prominent cheekbones and black hair, looking almost Native American. And in many of the photos, he’s standing proudly next to me, his boy, his first-born, his namesake, Dennis Herbert Green.

The day that I was born, my father swore that I would never work in a sawmill, as he did most of his life, that I would go to college and have a better, perhaps a little easier life than he had. Years later, when my usual summer job in a gas station fell through, he let me come to work at the stud mill where he was Superintendent, the Cannon Ball Lumber Company midway between Arcata and Blue Lake, on the Mad River, as a “trashpicker,” the lowest and most menial job in the mill.

He brought around a canteen of water for me, got me up at 4:30 a.m. to get to work on time, sat with me on our half-hour lunch breaks, and generally looked after me. When, deep into summer, that gas station job opened up, he saw me retire from sawmill work with some relief. And only then did my mother tell me about that day that I was born, and what my father had sworn.

So I look at the old photos. There I am in my Standard Stations uniform, the white twill pants and shirt, the white overseas cap, black shoes and belt and little black clip-on bow tie. Or in my Cub Scout uniform, or dressed in a suit for my senior prom, standing beside my dad, who was over six feet, a good four inches taller than me. Tall enough that when we were little, my sister and I would play with him “Skin the Cat,” walking up his legs and doing a somersault back to the floor.

We weren’t close in the beginning, and he wrote me a letter once apologizing for being so distant after a sawmill accident that almost tore off his arm and left him crippled when I was only four. But in his last five years we became as tight as any father and son can possibly be. So when he died, I felt abandoned, but also very much loved.

And in one of those ethereal experiences, I was convinced that his spirit stayed with me, looking over me, just to be sure I would be alright. I could feel him in my room for a good two years after the Christmas morning that he died.

So if we’re going to keep the child in us alive, that also means that a part of us will always be vulnerable to the loss of a parent, as much so as a little child is. That’s what it means to be human. And I suspect that when his cousin John the Baptist was beheaded, Jesus was devastated too.

©2010 Dennis Green